


hatef--k

by lukegodbaby



Series: hatef--k [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Ableist Language, M/M, femme vic, gay bars, gnc vic, hatefucking, patrick... is not well but he's doing his best, prescription medications
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 05:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20719205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lukegodbaby/pseuds/lukegodbaby
Summary: And there will be no tenderness, no tendernessThere will be no tenderness, no tendernessI will show no mercy for you,You had no mercy for meThe only thing that I ask, love me mercilessly(or, the one where someone asked for a good hatefuck)





	hatef--k

Dino’s is… alive.

Patrick is struggling with the thought that this was because Vic is in it.

God. That little fucker had begged. _Take me to a gay bar, c’mon, Pat, I know you want to, just take me to a fucking gay bar._

It had taken weeks. Fucking weeks, and finally, Patrick had broken down.

They set the date. The coming Friday. _Friday, I’ll take you to a fucking gay bar, but you better not make me regret it._

Patrick was regretting it.

He already knew this, but Vic was the following things when he wanted to be:

Bitchy. Loud. Charismatic.

And a goddamned slut.

He had spent. All. Day. Watching Vic get ready.

He knew what Vic looked like when he went out in search of dick, but he’d never had to sit through the process before, and now, he wished he could scrub his brain of all that fucking eyeliner and lace.

Lace.

Vic is fucking wearing _lace_.

Bitch.

Dino’s isn’t big. Patrick had refused to drive them to Portland so Vic could be the star of the show so far from home specifically so he could see Vic, no matter where he went.

Patrick sits alone in a booth, nursing a whole fucking bottle of whiskey he’d paid his first-born child for, watching Vic everywhere he went.

The song was fast, he was in a whole group of people, voguing. Patrick held back rolling his eyes. Yeah, he was gay, too, but that didn’t mean he had to be _that_ gay.

The song was slow, Vic was up close and personal with not one, but two random guys. Sandwiched between, a hand reached up behind him to cup one’s face while the other hand was fucking cupping the other guy’s crotch, and wasn’t that just sweet? Little romantic, finding love in everyone, everywhere.

Yeah, he rolled his eyes at that one every time.

Times like these, he remembers when the kid first came into his life. Walking everywhere like fucking Bambi, all shaky knees and no coordination.

Growth spurts and putting on muscle. Bleaching his hair, finding Playgirl and never looking back.

The night they got high, just the two of them, and Vic admitted he’d never blown a guy, ‘cause everyone was too scared of him, ‘cause he still didn’t look gay, ‘cause what if Henry found out and beat the other guy’s ass. And Patrick? So sweetly offered.

And Patrick, so sweetly waiting for that opportunity to roll back around.

Patrick shakes his head. His eyes had glazed over. He pats his pockets, antipsychotics and anti-anxiety meds still there.

He’d taken today’s dose.

He should be good, but with how things have been feeling… distinctly not real… lately, maybe he needs to make an appointment with his psych soon.

Vic.

Shit.

Where’s Vic?

He only takes the time to take a sip from the bottle and shake his head before he stands.

Headed to the bar first.

“Hey,” he snaps at the butch tending the taps, “lost my boyfriend. Femme. Bottle blonde. Purple shirt with black lace. High heeled boots.”

“Uh,” she says, and rolls her eyes around the room. “’Kay, I’m seeing, like, three guys fitting that description.”

“The one who was voguing.”

“Oh, shit, that kid.”

“Yeah.”

“Dunno, but the eyes are peeled.”

“Gee whiz, thanks.”

He waits until his back is turned to roll his eyes and take another sip. Pushing through the small crowds, he hunts down a guy and who he assumes is his boyfriend — two of Vic’s slow-dancers.

“Hey, lost my boyfriend. Femme, bottle blonde.”

They look away from each other, sizing him up.

“Well,” one says, shifting his weight to the other hip, “he didn’t tell _us_ he had a boyfriend.”

“Everyone’s got a dirty little secret. I’m his.”

They roll their eyes in tandem until they make eye contact. An unspoken agreement: fuck the stranger in front of them.

“Yeah, I’m so sure,” says the one in the leather harness. “Like we’ll tell you anything.”

“Why are you even here?” sneers the other one.

Eyeliner. He should have put eyeliner on.

They think he doesn’t belong here, and though they’re right — he’s not the gay bar type, just gay — eyeliner would help him _so_ much right now.

“Vicky begged me to take him to a gay bar. I did it. Now I’m looking for him, because he’s probably God knows where, without a fucking condom.”

They raise their eyebrows.

“Good luck,” the one in the harness says, waving him off.

Patrick turns away.

“Fucking bitchy —” he starts, then cuts himself off as he sees a familiar head of shining hair slip into the bathroom. “_Jesus_, Vic.”

He makes a beeline for the bathroom, shoving dancing people aside left and right.

When he gets to the bathroom door, he pushes it open with the hand he doesn’t have on the bottle of whiskey, and he stops short.

And he sees red.

And he shakes his head.

And it still doesn’t go away.

Pushed up against the wall with the tiny, dingy window up above his head is Vic. Vic, with his legs wrapped around some nameless guy’s hips, the guy’s hands pushing up his skirt.

Red. It wasn’t just the edges of his vision, it was everything. He could see the blood vessels pumping.

“Vicky,” he growls.

Vic stops mid-groan and pulls his legs back from the guy’s waist and gets to his feet. All shaky and uncoordinated. Fucking Bambi.

“Pa…trick?” Wide eyes. Then narrowed like a fucking snake. “Go away.”

“No.”

“We gotta problem, here?” asks the guy.

“Yeah, I gotta problem. I let him out of my sight for a minute, tops, and he fucking runs off with _you_.”

“Fuck off, buddy.”

Patrick closes his eyes, tilts his head to the side.

_Ground yourself. You are not the bad things you could do, but the good you choose to. _

“How about,” he says, opening his eyes and stepping in closer, “how about I _don’t_ fuck off. How about _you_ fuck off, before we figure out which breaks first — this bottle, or your fucking skull.”

The guy turns white.

He leaves, pushing Patrick to the side as he goes.

“Patrick, you fucking asshole, you — aah!”

Vic doesn’t get to really get into his bitchfest before Patrick grabs him and yanks him out of the bathroom.

By the upper arm, Patrick pulls Vic through the bar and to the front door.

“You no-good fucking bitch,” he growls. “Think you can just fuck anyone? I take you out, and this is how you repay me?”

“Patrick, stop,” Vic wheedles. “You’re hurting me.”

“Yeah? Good. I hear you’re into that kinda stuff.”

“Patrick!”

Outside, in the alley between Dino’s and the deli next door, Vic breaks free.

God. Fuck.

He’s still seeing red.

He needs to calm down, but he can’t even get in a full breath.

He puts the whiskey down.

“Patrick,” Vic spits, crossing his arms and rubbing his hands up and down his bare biceps like he’s cold, “maybe I am. But you’re not my boyfriend. And no matter what, I wouldn’t fucking want it from _you_.”

“Why not, _baby_? Go on, tell me. Bet you’re _dying_ to. Bet you’ve been holding it in for _years_. _I_ bet —”

“Because you’re _crazy_!”

Patrick takes a step back.

Vic takes a step forward, and then another, gets in his space and pokes at his chest with every new statement.

“Because you don’t know what’s real and what’s not real. Because you think people are toys. Because I _know_ what you fucking take those pills for. Because you don’t think — Patrick, after all this time — you don’t think _I’m_ real!”

Patrick grabs Vic, both arms, and shoves him up against the alley wall.

“_Crazy_?”

“_Yes_!”

Patrick gets enough of a breath in to shift gears.

He puts a hand in Vic’s hair. He pulls. Vic gasps, closing his eyes.

Patrick leans down and noses as Vic’s neck, presses a kiss to that pumping vein in the side.

“I know you don’t really think that, baby,” he purrs.

“F-fuck you, Patrick.”

“You could.”

“As if I’d really want to,” Vic says, pushing him off and away.

Stunned, the red receding, Patrick stands away from him.

And then Vic takes the two steps needed to get in Patrick’s space and flings his arms around his neck.

“Fuck you,” he whispers before he kisses Patrick. “Fuck you, _Jesus_, just — I hope you burn in Hell.”

“You’ll be with me,” Patrick whispers back, reaching down to pick Vic up by the backs of his thighs, walk him back to that wall and press him up against it. “Womb to fuckin’ tomb.”

They kiss like that, frantic, pulling at each other’s hair and clothes, not stopping for anything. Not for the drunken dancers who left the bar and whistled and clapped when they saw them, not for the autumn chill.

“Gonna fuck you right here,” Patrick growls into Vic’s neck. “Fuck anyone who sees.”

“Fuck you,” Vic bites back right into his ear, “do it.”

And Patrick’s so grateful that Vic cares more about how he looks than being practical. No tights. Nothing but his fucking girl’s underwear and a little skirt — already pushed up to his waist — between Patrick, and Patrick getting what he wants.

He puts an arm under Vic’s ass to support him and digs around in the left pocket of his leather jacket. Packet… of lube. Yeah. Right there.

“Hold yourself up,” he grunts.

Vic does it.

_Good boy. _

Patrick undoes his own pants and pulls his cock out. Rips open the packet of lube and smears some on, pushes one, then another finger, up into Vic, pushing those stupid panties aside.

Vic sighs. Sighs, like it feels _so_ good, and Jesus — _fuck_ — Patrick doesn’t know what kept him from doing this for so long.

He pulls his fingers out. Shoves his cock in.

Vic nearly _screams_.

“Oh, _fuck_, Patrick, _God_,” he moans.

“Fucking like that, huh?” Patrick asks, pulling out and pushing back in.

“Yeah, yeah, _Patrick_!”

“Fucking little bitch. Bet this was all you wanted tonight, huh?”

“You fucking _wish_.”

Patrick grabs a fistful of Vic’s hair and yanks his head to the side. Bites down on his neck, pushes the little strap of his shirt out of the way so he can get at his collarbone.

Still biting down, he wraps a hand around Vic’s cock and starts stroking, just as fast as he can. He wants this to be fucking blinding. He wants Vic to never forget.

“F-fuck, fuck, _Patrick_, ohmygod, oh… oh my God —”

“What, you gonna come for the crazy son of a bitch?”

“Fucking — _maybe_.”

Patrick laughs. And then he kisses Vic again, nips, hard, at his bottom lip. Doesn’t draw blood. He’s got enough control, now, to not do that.

When Vic comes, it’s all over Patrick’s hand. And he tightens, God, he gets so fucking tight around Patrick’s cock that for a moment, Patrick stops moving.

“Don’t stop, you fucking _bastard_. Fucking come in me.”

Patrick growls, fucks up faster and harder into Vic, and within a minute, he’s coming inside him.

“Fuck — yeah — Patrick, oh my God,” Vic moans.

Patrick holds up his hand, the one covered in Vic’s cum.

“You made a mess, baby.”

With fucking doe-eyes, Vic licks it all up.

That’s Patrick’s Vic. Not the dancer. Not the fucker-of-strange-men.

The little Bambi kid from high school who wasn’t sure how to please a guy, but had some ideas.

“That’s my boy,” Patrick whispers in his ear.

“Fuck you, Patrick. I’m not _yours_.”

“You say that, but I know who you’re sleeping with tonight. And it isn’t some random guy.”

He pulls out of Vic’s ass. Cum dribbles out around his cock, and he pulls an old tissue out of his pocket to wipe it away.

He puts Vic back together, careful, so careful.

Pulls the panties back on, the strap back up, the skirt back down.

When Vic’s standing again, suddenly, he’s not. He’s crouching down, wrapping his arms around his knees.

Patrick shoves his own cock back into his pants faster than he can fucking think about it, and crouches down to look at Vic.

“You still don’t know I’m real,” Vic says, reaching out for the bottle of whiskey Patrick had put down.

“I know you’re real, Vicky. I just don’t always agree with the facts.”

Vic huffs out a laugh through his nose and takes a gulp of the whiskey.

“I wanna go home. Take me home?”

“On one condition.”

Vic’s head shoots up.

“Don’t drink all my whiskey. That cost me three hundred percent what it would’ve in a store.”

Vic smiles, a weak little thing.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I said _okay_, asshole.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

They go. They find Patrick’s Chevy, they get in, and they drive back to Derry.

In the morning, knowing full well where Patrick and Vic went last night, Belch doesn’t ask over coffee about the bite mark on Vic’s neck. Henry bitches about it, but then says _good, at least one of us is getting laid_.

Patrick looks at Vic before he takes his morning pills.

Yeah.

Or two of them.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at god--baby.tumblr.com


End file.
